


Lynchpin

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: A drabble about letting go, Blood Play, F/M, Scarring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 08:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13384155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Some nights, they both just need to be free.





	Lynchpin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure there's a real point to this piece, other than a shameless excuse to write these two being smexy with knives. Please enjoy! :)

He returns to her, covered in blood. Clothes are discarded to the fire, already crackling in its hearth. Rust-red smears his skin; mostly his hands, but also in broad strokes across the face. His eyes are wild, pupils dilated: black blotting out blue.

There is no pleasantry or idle talk. Victor grabs her mid-step, hands a vice around her waist, and tosses her on the first available surface. (Some night, it’s the bed or sofa. Others, the wall suffices. Only once, he has been ravenous and threw her to the floor. She was bruised for weeks.) Tonight, it’s her desk, cleared with a violent sweep of the arm.

(She has a thought to berate him for disturbing her place of work, but lets it fall to the wayside. For now.)

“I need to feel your skin.” It’s a fevered snarl, low in her ear, half a second before he grabs her blouse and rips it apart. (Some nights, if he has the patience, he uses his knife for the job.) His hands are everywhere: leaving no inch untouched, no curve or natural line un-coveted. Small red bites litter her neck, darkest where pulse beats beneath skin, and along one shoulder.

This is the point where he can’t touch her fast enough; can’t touch enough of her. Composure and collectivity abandon him entirely. This is the face Gotham rumors him to possess: more animal than man, feral and untamed. Only she sees it. Only she is not afraid of it. Of him.

“I know what else you need.” She whispers, low and smoky in his ear. A tremor runs through his limbs: anticipatory. He knows what’s coming.

The first flick of blade across skin is at his left hip: short, shallow, teasing. He growls, biting at her shoulder. “More.”

She smirks. “On your back, lover.”

(This is the lynchpin of their affair: that they dominate each other as equally as they submit.)

A thin line of red begins below his clavicle and extends to lower belly; the blood does not immediately bubble to surface, but instead seeps slowly across pale skin. Thin rivets of crimson, journeying outward like macabre masterpieces. She lightly suckles his wound at random places. He purrs.

(Tiger stripes. That’s what the lines of blood remind her of.)


End file.
